Godsmack Part I, The Mother Earth

By Josie Peterson

Yahn Marynugh suddenly ill, loses his job, then finds he must run forever from drug lords one of his former clients got involved with. Upon a threat of untimely death, Yahn runs for cover to a rural farm where he begins healing his health while trying to jump-start a new business. Despite good odds, the drug lords don't give up and force him to help them survive in a never-ending ruthless cycle of criminal competition inside the often-inhumane, international drug trade.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Josie Peterson
• Release date: Mar 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224570072

Josie Peterson

I am a writer and actress who has performed in New York and Los Angeles with professional and workshop productions of my stage plays in Manhattan. I write across multiple genres including dark humor, tragedy, and political drama. I've been writing steadily for the past 20 years and will continue to write novels and adaptations of classical works in the years to come. My work tends toward the experimental side of art and always includes strong and simple humanitarian voices and points of view, no matter what genre I'm writing in. I love being involved in bringing my work to the public and seeing fellow actors interpret my material, along with performing some of it myself every now and then. I invite readers to visit my website at https://www.josiepeterson.net for information about my catalogue, editorial reviews, book awards, and more. Details about my film and television credits are located on IMDb at https://www.pro.imdb.com/JosiePeterson

Book preview

All rights reserved

Chapter One - a conscience

March winds in Philadelphia. They rode hard and flat against Yahn Marynugh’s gaunt, white cheeks, cracking his lips a little further. Walnut Street was empty of traffic except a few yellow cabs trolling for a fare. No sounds at 6 am. Sun crept up the forward side of the Billy Penn statue, beaming more white than yellow just past the shoulder girdle, making the granite body seem more invincible, more sacred, than it might deserve. A neon blue light bounced off the windowpane of a coffee shop into the gutter. No smells. The doors shut tight. Yahn pulled the white sheepskin collar of his coat closer to the back of his neck.

The gait of his body lunged forward making him seem like he was moving through an enormous snow drift, but the street was dry, with some icy patches on the western end of the sidewalk. He cut from Walnut at 15th Street then into an alley that ran parallel to Walnut for about two or three blocks. The alley was uncharacteristically empty except for a few pigeons scavenging inside putrid, soggy cardboard boxes left over from last night’s Happy Hour at Kennie’s, a green and white clapboard and masonry five-dollar drunk bar built for the railroad workers and their wives in 1902. Yahn couldn’t stand the sight of it. The boxes reminded him of the human remnants who may have spent a few hours curled up after passing out from cheap leftovers they nabbed from half empty kegs of the most popular brands of now stale, German beer.

The smell of urine on the far wall of a bank building was strong. Yahn had to quickly cover his mouth and his raw nose with one of his new speckled brown leather gloves he bought from a specialty shop carrying exclusive products from lower South America. The kind of shop where everything will be giftwrapped for you, and nothing is priced under one hundred eighty dollars, American.

Yahn stroked his cheek aimlessly, stopping in front of a lamp post unsure of where he was. He closed his eyelids momentarily, hoping to get reacquainted with his whereabouts. Snow flecks began to drizzle on his cold head making him wake up just a bit from his mental fog. Yet he remained oblivious to his immediate surroundings not realizing his feet were even touching the ground.

He heard a stirring to his left. He opened his eyes to a dark colored hand tugging at his grey slacks near the calf of his left leg. He wondered why he got up today...

Dionysus, a seventeen year old black kid, had his hand held out for alms. The battered boy mustered up his courage to speak the unspoken.  

Why is it I’m here and you’re there?

Although very intuitive, Yahn remained inside his armament of anger and refused the black boy’s plea.

I don’t know. I never have. I didn’t do this to you, did I? Someone else gave you a particularly raw deal ... Not I. Other things happened on account of me. Bad things. Extremely horrible things. But not to you individually. His emotion was aroused to such a degree it made him finish off with those images make me grieve...

Curious for debate, Dionysus stood up almost as tall as Yahn, short only by an inch to Yahn’s long body.

Why refuse someone who’s right in front of you and never had the kind of freedom that meant anything.

Yahn circled around him.

Why didn’t you go to school yesterday, smart man? You’re likely to skip a few grades. Then you’ll eat, eventually.

A shadowy figure moved out from a torn sleeping bag propped up tent like by three metal shopping carts, and everything tied together with a chord of dirty white rope. It was Dionysus natural father, a bearded man of Ethiopian descent who interrupted his son’s conversation.

Fred, Fred, ...that’s my name. I want my son near me ’till we get ourselves a permanent place to live. We won’t bother you none. He just hasn’t eaten in a day or two, and he can’t take the pressure no more.

Yahn dug a hand into his coat pocket, and handed some money out to the men, here, this could possibly make me feel a little less suicidal today.

Dionysus grinned a big Cheshire cat smile at the two fifty dollar and three twenty-dollar bills. He tucked them immediately into a pouch hidden inside his navy-blue parka and said Good. Good man. God be with you.

Yahn laughed. God? Who’s that!?

Reaching deep to let go of the fear, Fred exhaled loudly and slowly.

Yahn moved away and had started ranting. There is no greater power than the wrath we supply the Earth. Man versus woman. Machines verses people. Hate versus love. Rich versus poor. Clean versus dirty. Vinegar versus cream, up versus down, left versus right...

With more curiosity than he ever had known, Dionysus began to walk behind Yahn. His father rose and followed a few paces behind figuring if his son wanted to know more, it must be the right thing. Exactly right to this time, this day, this exact moment.

Dionysus said, Dad, we’re dudes on the street, and he’s rich and the crazy one.

Fred acknowledges the irony, we got it bad in the stomach, he’s got it bad in the head.

Dionysus walked and couldn’t help but be premeditative, maybe, just maybe, he’s gonna get it in the stomach too.

As the father-son duo followed, Yahn picked up his gate as he headed toward Chestnut Street, a wide thoroughfare hosting a loud rumbling trolley car filled to capacity with the stoic body, each individual going to make a hard living, coming home, and doing it again and again and again.

As he walked alone, Yahn came upon two young Korean American men dressed in jeans and navy pea coats who were working out of a refrigerated truck. The street was silent now except for the tap of the boxes on the pavement as the men propped them on cement. They broke from unloading their cargo of squid and salted fish, to smoke. The first man, Joey, tilted his head sideways, squinting, gazing at Yahn.

Where’s Wall Street, man? I think you’re lost, Mister.

If I wanted to get lost, then I’d come looking for you, and we’d chat, Yahn snarled.

You’re not makin’ any sense, said Bo, the younger of the two Koreans.

Am I supposed to...? Stranger? Yahn replied.

No. Because we don’t count in your world, Bo commands.

Yahn stopped moving and stared straight ahead. A strange premonition came over him as he resumed walking. He felt himself sinking straight into the ground, feeling a warm cocoon wrapped around him, whispering it would be alright, alright to stay here and talk.

As Bo dragged on his cigarette, he took a long look at Yahn, and figured he’s got it made in comparison. He might not have more than a bed, a television, and a few friends, but at least he can stay warm for a few more months, riding out the winter into spring with a clean conscience.

Joey nudged Bo by the elbow. Let’s follow he whispered.

The Koreans locked up the truck and ran up behind the two homeless black men who followed walking behind Yahn as he resumed his journey.

Without looking back or panicking, Yahn sensed he’d attracted a crowd of misachievers who had nothing to do but pester him for his cash. He wasn’t going to let it bother him and turned east toward JFK Boulevard. The four men followed as if they’d find some clue, some philosophical satisfaction in subtly confronting the tall, lean man who doesn’t give a damn about anybody. As he walked, Yahn surveyed the barrenness of the street. He turned suddenly. Yes, I’ll think about your lives. Comparing them to mine.                                         

With that remark, Dionysus walks up beside Yahn. Fred lined up behind his son with Bo and Joey on either side of Yahn.

Dionysus was angered now. There’s nothing to compare. We’re all that there is. See... black and yellow—salt of the earth.

Yahn cackled. Salt of the earth! What am I then? I am not totally responsible for your life, and sometimes mine.

He looked furtively down the block. His eyes locked onto an aging, grey haired man who hobbled on one leg, the other propped up from below the knee to the pavement by a taped piece of wood. His amputation clearly marked an evil in the way he was forced to walk, as if his entire body would collapse at any moment.

See that human being remarked Yahn to his antagonists.

Joey wags his finger, yeah, we see it, feel it, taste it, an’ touch it every fuckin’ day out here.

He lights another cigarette as he ran furtively to catch the hobbling man. Joey grabbed him, almost carrying his entire weight on his back as he moved the man toward the minority entourage.

Yahn distorted the scene before him in his mind. He saw life expressing itself as a freakish cartoon with no beginning, and no end to the human misery he saw before him. He got a squeamish feeling inside his gut.

Memories of slave labor and corporate takeovers came rushing into his mind and whirling around his head. Visions of his overseas endeavors left him short of breath, and unable to speak.

You see this? You comprehend it? says Dionysus.

Yahn was completely unable to answer. Bo immediately sat down on curb. Worried and exhausted, Joey couldn’t think of any crude remarks to give Yahn because all his concentration was absorbed in letting the crippled man rest on the sidewalk against Bo’s back and shoulders.

Bo looked at the man’s imitation limb. You got shot...? The old man nodded affirmative.

Yahn snapped out of his reveries, by forcefully increasing the velocity of thought which exactly correlated into a frenetic speech pattern, nowhere do I realize what to do for any of you. I cannot help it if you are unable to take care of yourselves. Sometimes when I realize the depth of the problem I do not want to breathe, or sleep, or eat, or even recognize I am alive at any level. The passion I feel has become demolished in quagmire, some residue from your souls...even when I think I can help anyone it turns out you didn’t remember to take your medication, pay your rent, get aid, go for that interview, etcetera, etcetera and then I can’t find you again to help because I have no time!! No one can return themselves to normalcy, to some human dignity, to some self-awareness when they know of your absurd crime of not being able to keep up with the pack. Were you looking for work, finding it, and going there every day so as to not wind up at my doorstep, and asking me what to do? An answer I do not possess at my level of achievement, or education, or life experience. I’d rather look away, but your kind is always there, scratching at my windowpane, moving my memories, shifting them around to and fro so there is nothing left to my conscience but a small shred of what once was a profound inner knowing that the world was fair, good and nurturing to us all! I don’t know the difference anymore between sanity and insanity, capacity to live, and lust for death. What is up is down, what is left is right, and what is soft is hard, what is hot is cold, deathly cold like I am!!

A flock of pigeons swooped down from a grey steel rooftop and hovered above Yahn’s head. Dionysus backed away by a few feet, when Fred grabbed his hand and tugged him to safety.

Joey then lunged at Yahn with several punches, while Bo remained on the pavement with the crippled man. The pigeons overtook Yahn and Joey tussling in the street. With one mighty blow to the stomach from a left fist, Yahn tumbled forward into the street. The old man whistled. 

The next morning, suddenly awake in a four-poster bed, Yahn opened both eyes with a snapping like motion. His stomach was extremely sore. He checked whether it had bruised, and he saw a large purple and blue area the size of a honeydew melon in the area of his naval. He shuddered and rolled over listening to the snoring flesh beside him. Some sweat lined his left temple and rolled down to hit and stop at his long jaw line. He felt his body as tight as a knot. His nostrils clogged with suffocation; the kind only brought on by deep nightmarish sleep.

An alarm blared on the nightstand. It made an unappealing metallic clicking sound, born of a technology that had nothing to do with the warmth of a bedroom. Gregory Millner rolled over and groaned. Without opening his eyes, he spoke softly, Try to get hold of somebody in legal at Abraxas, tell ’em to see me Thursday, before you head out to see Simms tomorrow.

Tomorrow is today, Greg, and I certainly will, said Yahn, plainly. Then he painfully got out of bed and disappeared down an ornately decorated hallway.

Gregory lifted his head up and looked at the risen sun line coming from an upturned pale tan Venetian blind, the kind made in the 1940s for summer houses. He lifted himself out of bed and moved to correct the misaligned blind to fit the exact symmetry of the others.

Yahn quickly buttoned his white shirt and knotted his tie in front of the bathroom mirror. He noticed his dark blue suit jacket was worn but he didn’t care one bit on account of who he was seeing later that day. A man who did not know about people, propriety, ethics, or culture if it all fell on him. Succumbing to lust for things unholy was this client’s favorite way to live,—blind tramping on the masses. Yahn knew that in order to face Simms today, he’d numb himself to the point of achieving an uncomfortable pain in the back of his neck.

At home in Greg’s place, he moved from the bathroom to the living room and sat down in exhaustion right by Greg’s oversized fireplace. He wished somehow there could be the warmth of the flames from the hearth inside his chest burning out all the distorted shapes that were suffocating his solar plexus, and which made breathing very difficult. He inhaled deeply and discovered there was a crick somewhere halfway down on his in-breath that disallowed free movement of his elongated rib cage.

Going back inside his head, he turned toward a smell he sensed behind him. A smell familiar from his youth years ago. Something fresh like recently cut alfalfa, or bluegrass. Suddenly, there was a fleeting spark that came at him. It lit up into a shiny ball above his head. He knew it was there hovering but did not react to it. He simply allowed it to be where it was in its trajectory from a place of no-time to him in present time. In this moment, he fleetingly recognized that the shiny ball represented the movement of something larger connected to his soul. He waited momentarily for anything to occur yet didn’t really care if anything did happen. He then moved his body upward to see if the spark moved with him. It did indeed shoot off to the ceiling. He looked up and it was there as if staring at him, waiting for his acknowledgement. He quietly said hello there to something he didn’t understand but wanted to know. It replied quietly, from the great silence, not the time yet, but I AM coming. Yahn laughed to himself, amused at his private joke with a God he did not believe ever existed. He said over and over to himself then it’s only Simms today...stupid Simms.

Chapter Two - the lunch

Yahn charged into the Grande Florina around noontime. The place was empty of customers, who were predominantly business types and local South Philly Italians from the neighborhood. A young waitress, blonde,—very pretty, according to strict beauty pageant standards of perfect height at 5‘10", weight 115 lbs., fine bone structure, and hourglass figure—showed Yahn to where Mr. Simms was seated. Directly across the table, with plump breasts slightly exposed, another pretty and tall blonde waitress prepared an urn of Columbian coffee while singing an aria in high A from an obscure 19th c. French opera, The Horrible Demise of the Children of Madame La Braque of The Mountain.

She sang with all her heart hitting her high E‘s effortlessly on the dot since she was very well trained. Yahn felt soothed by the liquid notes that emanated from her throat. He loosened his shoelaces as he sat down opposite Mr. Simms.

Wilford looked up from his plate of grayed beef burgundy a la pesco, with a mint julip tripe and side of scungilli prepared in soured red wine for his side dish. He washed a mouthful of food right down his throat with a gulp of bright yellow sake before addressing Yahn.

So, err, Yahn, what you do with my books?

Yahn loosened his tie, and took a sip of water from a tall, frosted glass placed in front of him a moment ago by the blonde waitress. He gently placed the glass down in front of him and stared Wilford straight in the eyes.

I completed your audit...Mr. Simms, you’ve got to be more sensible if you want to see Creaton Industries live to see a tomorrow.

Wilford kept a steady pace finishing his food. He glanced at the tall blonde